


In the Shadow of the Mountain

by ambersagen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark Magic, Family Drama, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Monster!Dean, Not Really Character Death, Past Character Death, Sam Does Not Understand, Slow Burn, Spirits, Spooky AU, angel!cas - Freeform, creature AU, hurt!Dean, lots of ghosts, nobody tops or bottoms but there will be sex, traditional demons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5129507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambersagen/pseuds/ambersagen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some places in the world are shadowed. The veil thin. It is best not to speak of what you hear, whispering. In the shadow of the mountain it is best to sleep through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This might be the beginning, but it is also an end.

**Author's Note:**

> A great thanks to Lauren, as always, for listening to me bitch about this fic for over a year and reading it to stoke my ego.  
> Another great thanks to my beta, amberpeace.tumblr.com for coming through for me last minute. I am in your debt.
> 
> This fic is mostly complete and will update every other day if life doesn't decide to throw some curses my way.
> 
> Happy Belated Halloween to All

Rain poured down, just as it had all week, casting a cold misty gloom on every morning. Each drop was thick, pating wetly against the worn and flaking wood of the cabin that rested on the edge of the cliff. The screen door of the building banged sharply behind Dean as he stepped out onto the porch, pulling his collar up against the wet as the clang of metal echoed behind him. The door creaked back and forth several times before settling closed. By the time it finished with its sharp complaints he was long gone, crunching his way down the haphazard trail that ran from the seaside cottage to the old road. The road was muddy, flooded with small rivers of rain, each of which only added to the decay that inevitably set into rural byways.

His truck was waiting for him, looming cold and silent, parked half in the wild grass to allow the occasional motorist to get by. Dean shook himself at the car, beads of water dripping off the tips of his hair, his breath barely visible clouds as he fumbled for his keys, clicking them into the lock  and allowing him to climb wetly into the vehicle. The truck jumped to life, heater reluctantly groaning on as Dean fiddled with the knobs on the dash.

In all the time that Dean had existed on the lonely cliff side, the flow of which was barely marked by the lives that grew up and faded around him, the road never seemed to change. Cars now drove where once Dean had spurred on horses, but the mud and grass and stone of it had barely changed at all. Rubbing his chill hands along the wheel of the truck, Dean pulled out onto the path, heading inland towards the mountainous valley.

He drove up the coastline, careful on the roads as the rain rose up in waves under his tires. He intended to make a big shopping trip today, get some canned goods to stock up the cabin against the winter months ahead. October was nearing its end and winter often came suddenly to the small coastal town. The roads were fine to use now, but in later months flooding often washed them out for days at a time, or fog and ice made them treacherous to navigate. Dean knew the dangers of his hometown well, although he wasn't concerned for himself so much as he was simply following the habit of many lifetimes. He wasn't sure a sudden violent dip off the byway and into the ocean would even kill him. Most things wouldn't.

Half an hour's drive inland brought him into the closest thing to civilization that Cape Hope had.

His truck bumped and groaned its way into town, passing only two houses on the way in. One sad shack that belonged to Mrs. Harvelle, long widowed and left alone with only her little girl. The other was in slightly better repair. Newly painted a bright yellow to match what the landlady, Becky, thought was a traditional sea cottage color, it was mostly empty at the moment. Its front gate was ajar as Dean drove past, new paint unable to make up for the overgrown weed patch of a front yard. After that he was in town.

Town was a corner store with one gas pump out front, two eateries that lay diagonally from each other at the only four way stop with a real traffic light, and a town hall that doubled as a fishing, camping, and barber shop. A couple of residential buildings finished up the town with a population of less than 700. There were other communal buildings of note in the area of course. There was the Old Castle, run by a mouse of a man who spent most of his days hiding away in it, pretending to wait for tourists while he worked on writing the same novel, year after year. Towards the mountain there was the church, surrounded by tombstones and visited by the occasional worshiper of no set denomination.

Dean rarely ventured that deep under the shadow of the mountain, Around these parts leaving your stomping grounds was a complicated matter. Not that he was intimidated, but going in that direction often might bring him some attention he would rather not address in the next century.

Gravel crunched under his tires as he pulled into the grocery store parking lot.  The wind tapered off a bit by the hills between the little town and the sea but the chill was still in the air when Dean pushed open the door. A small chime followed him in past the registers as he grabbed a cart.

Rufus gave him a small nod as he pushed the squeaky cart by, flicking his paper to the next page as he took a drag off the cigarette he had lit in defiance of all clean air laws. Rufus came from a long line of men that lived hard. His father had died of a stroke, brought on by the hard liquor and long days smoking away his time at the store. His father before him had died of tuberculosis, mourned little as life moved on. Dean had little doubt that Rufus would pass away just the same. Few in the town besides Dean even remembered what family the man had left.

Dean nodded to him as he moved toward the canned goods aisle, passing a plastic skeleton holding a bowl of brightly colored, off-brand candy. Glancing up, Dean took in the fake cobwebs and bats strewn across the white flaking plaster. Snorting, he pulled out his list and got to shopping.

The cart squeaked and wobbled its way through rows of canned corn and beans. He even managed to find a few passable bags of potatoes and apples in a cluttered corner of the store. Eventually he had everything he needed and headed up to the front. Rufus was still propped against the register, the only sign that any time had passed was the now ashy butt of the cig hanging from the corner of his lips. As the old man rang him up, Dean found himself staring at a stuffed vampire doll sitting on the counter with a bright orange bowl of no doubt ancient mints for sale in its lap.

“Yeah,” Rufus commented as if Dean had asked, shaking his head as he dropped food carelessly into brown paper bags. “Can’t believe it’s that time of year already.”

Dean hummed in acknowledgement. Now that he thought about it, he could feel the power gathering. He had assumed it was simply due to the approaching full moon, but of course the holiday would account for all of the energy in the air. Dark corners of the store whispered, pushed back into story only by the light of day and the strong wards left in the stone, buried in the foundation of the building lifetimes ago by people who felt less secure in the sun than their decedents.

Contrary to popular belief, All-Hallows Eve was not the most powerful night of the year for spirits. The full moon and the new moon surrounding the holiday worked better. All were a little ways off.

Grabbing his groceries and tossing a casual goodbye to Rufus as he headed out, Dean was pleased to see that the rain had mostly dissipated while he had shopped. A few boats could be seen off in the shady blues of the ocean, but there was little sign of life as Dean took his purchases his truck. The sun had come out while he shopped, but it did little to cut the chill of the autumn air.

He settled the bags in the truck bed, leaning for a moment against the dirty metal. His breath escaped in clouds as he stared vaguely in the direction of the mountain.

“Aren’t you cold?”

Dean blinked, reverie broken. A tall man stood by the store deck, his hands in the pockets of a long, tan coat.

“Your jacket seems thin for this weather,” the man elaborated, nodding towards Dean.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean replied gruffly, wiggling his fingers. “Nothing like the cold we’ll get after the New Year,” he eyed the man, who stared openly back. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked, knowing full well that he wasn’t. Dean knew everyone around here, had known their parents, their grandparents.  So yeah, he knew this rumpled, black haired, stranger wasn’t from his town.

“It’s that obvious?” the man asked, looking down at himself in bemusement.

“A little.”

The stranger huffed, stepping down off the deck, shrugging down into his collar against the wind. “I’m Castiel,” He said, not offering his hand but rather opting to peer into Dean’s face awkwardly.

“Dean,” Dean offered, pulling back a little and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Dean,” Castiel repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. “Well, it is good to meet you. Perhaps we will talk again soon. As I said, I’m not from around here, I’m still moving in.”

He stood there, as if expecting some sort of answer.

“The Shurly place?” Dean grunted, trying for a little genuine interest in his inflection.

Castiel perked up. “Yes, that’s right.”

Dean made a noncommittal noise and opened the driver door. “Well. I guess I’ll see you around then.” He said, nodding. He was done, even if the stranger wasn’t.

Castiel didn’t seem to notice the awkward discomfort he had caused and gave a small wave, stepping back as Dean piled himself back into the truck. Dean watched as the man got into his own car, a non-descript, off-white junker. He watched, unblinking, as Castiel drove off along the potholed road.

He took a deep breath, focusing on the smell of gasoline and wet upholstery. He forgot how tiring it was interacting with newcomers. His town had been stagnant for years now, with far more young people moving out than anyone moving in. But this Castiel person. Something about him made Dean feel that the guy might unwittingly attract attention, if only because he was new. You never knew what might be stirring in the shadow of the mountain.

He shook his head and started the engine. Castiel would learn to fit in or he would move on. Whatever trouble befell him in the meantime was not Dean’s problem.

\---

Back at the cottage Dean unloaded his groceries in as few trips as his arms could handle. The weight of the plastic bags had cut red marks into his arms, but now everything was inside where it was relatively warm. Dean picked his way leisurely through the contents, trying to find space for new food in the cluttered, chipped cabinets. The whole kitchen had been accented with blue when it was new. Now the trimming on the walls and drawers was faded, the curtains so old that they were almost transparent.

Once upon a time Dean had cared about these details. Once upon a time he would have claimed they made the house a home. But that was a long time ago and these days Dean couldn’t exactly imagine himself hanging up a couple of plastic skeletons and fake cobwebs on his front porch.

With all of his food stored, time ticked by slowly. He busied himself with menial chores like tidying the cellar and chopping wood. A good chunk of the afternoon was gone when an old Toyota rumbled up the road. Dean straightened up, stretching his back as he settled the tarp over his wood pile. It was just about ready for winter. The Toyota pulled to a stop outside his fence. Wiping his head with a rag from his pocket he headed towards it.

The driver turned off the engine. It ticked and groaned in the cloudy chill of the afternoon. The window was up but the driver nodded at Dean as the passenger door opened. Dean peered in, recognizing the driver. He gave the man a slight wave in greeting as an elderly woman stepped out of the car.

Of all the people who chose to spend their lives eking out a living in the shadow of the mountain, Cassie Robinson was one of Dean’s favorites. These days her style was as loose and free as the winds that raced up the coastline, and if her lengths of thick curls had more gray than brown in them, and her eyesight was failing beyond the aid of the cat’s eyes glasses she wore, Dean wasn’t going to admit it. It never seemed fair when he never looked a day over thirty and probably never would.

A kiss on the cheek and a nod to the drive was all they needed. Together they moved up the gravel path with the familiar ease of practice, no words spoken as Dean pulled out a chair for her at the old dented table and set about making tea. She settled herself carefully in his space, taking her time with her aging bones as the kettle warmed to a whistle.

“I don’t see much of you around town lately,” she noted, carefully taking the saucer and cup from him. ‘You were a recluse even before I met you, now I would say you are almost a non-entity. It’s like you don’t even live here.” The fruity aroma of earl gray filled the room as Dean poured himself a cup too.

“Kind of hard to live when there isn’t anything around to live for. I’ve seen all that passes for fun in town and it’s not exactly thrilling,” he said, setting the pot down and taking a seat at the small kitchen table.

Cassie swatted at him. “Don’t give me that. You may believe in your own macho bullshit, but you aren’t immune to feelings. I know you get lonely puttering away up here,” She sipped her tea, humming appreciatively. “Ellen Harvelle needs some work done on her plumbing,” she said. “Hasn’t got the money to get someone in.”

Dean didn’t doubt it. He remembered Bill, the infectious smile of the young man as he basked in the joys of his recent marriage, little knowing that he would only be granted a few weeks to enjoy it before some out of town drunk driver would t-bone him one evening before he even got the news of his wife’s pregnancy. At the time it had felt like just another sign of entropy to Dean. The town growing in silence rather than life. But to everyone’s surprise Ellen hadn’t left, hadn’t fled the memories of death the place held. She had taken the insurance money and the child she was growing and had bought a house. Against all odds she had stayed, had continued to live.

Dean set down his cup, taking care with the fragile glass as he met Cassie’s eyes.

She smiled, understanding.

They chatted for a while after that, Cassie’s warm light cutting through Dean’s gruff malaise.

He walked her down the rickety stairs of the deck. She patted his arm appreciatively, giving him a peck on the cheek. The warm scent of roses lingered in the air as she walked slowly back to the car where her nephew waited to take her home.

Victor gave Dean a nod, which he returned. Dean remained where he stood as Victor held open the side door for his great aunt. The young man had the Sight, first one in the family since Cassie to show it. Such bloodlines ran through the town, unsurprising given the location and age of the place. It had been hard on Victor, as growing up he had been quite the calm, logical child. It was never a comfortable feeling finding out the world around you was less tame and predictable than you had been lead to believe.

Dean didn’t envy anyone who could See what looked back at them.


	2. Love Thy Neighbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my beta for helping me beat this chapter into shape.

Sunday morning found Dean digging a hole. From where he stood on the sloping hillside at the edge of town he could only just make out the sounds of the ocean. No human noise reached his ears, and the view of the road was blocked by the gentle upward curve of earth. Sweat barely formed on him in the slight chill of the morning air as he worked, his muscles pulling tight with the weight of dirt that even his supernatural strength found trying. The job was more than Ellen could have attempted, and she had been glad to accept his help.  

Footsteps crunched down the spongy, pebbled path. Dean tilted his head back, tossing his damp hair off his forehead with the motion. His visitor stopped above him on the grassy part of the hill.

“Cas,” he said, surprised, wiping his hands on his jeans as he took a look at the guy.

Cas inclined his head in greeting, face neutral. “Hello, Dean,” he said, gaze taking in the mostly dug hole, the shovel jutting out of the ground like a tombstone, the dirt that Dean could feel streaked across his cheek. “I thought it might be you,” he glanced behind him briefly, then around as he surveyed the dead fields and rocky hills. “I was just taking a walk and I happened to just see your figure from the road. What are you digging for on the Harvelle’s property?”

It was a simple question, no doubt more curious than accusing, but Dean felt his hackles rising in defense regardless. Other parts of his mind gathered themselves in, and he resisted the urge to flex enormous wings in a way that would tell this stranger to watch his tone. It would be immature to say the least, and possibly scarring for the poor guy.

“Septic tank,” he grunted instead, turning back to his work. “Ellen’s toilets are fucked five ways from Sunday and she and Jo can’t even run a tap without every water source in the house flooding.”

Castiel stared at him, gaze mostly serene, but just a touch of confusion pinched his brow. “So you are helping with that.” He said carefully.

“Well yeah. Ellen’s obviously got issues with her drains, and it’s not like she has any clue where to even begin fixing it, much less the time to do it herself.”

“She could hire a plumber.”

A lone bird whistled in a bush off by the road as Dean straightened. “She could, but she doesn’t have to,” he said, gaze firm, eyes locked with the man standing next to him.

They stood there like that, two creatures alone on a dead hillside. The bird was gone, only the slight rustle of sea wind on grass to be heard.

Finally, Castiel blinked, slowly. “It is kind of you to help,” he said, his face still indicating that he doubted the logic behind getting your neighbor to fix your plumbing rather than a professional. “I’m sure having toilets flooding her home must be...unpleasant? For Mrs. Harvelle.”

Dean stared at him. “You aren’t very good at this, are you?” he asked finally.

The man coughed, the slightest twitch of embarrassment on his face. “I uh, I don’t mean to sound callous. It’s been a while since I have lived around people. I forget what having a real community is like,” he glanced down at Dean, eyes flicking to his face and then away. “I admit I am surprised. I had thought that the nature of your lifestyle meant you would be more aloof.”

Dean frowned, genuinely surprised. “Why the hell would you think that?”

Cas fidgeted. “I saw you, at the store. You seemed very…displeased with the holiday décor. It is slightly stereotypical, I know, but you barely spoke to the man at the counter and Becky told me that you live all by yourself in a broken down cabin, so I suppose I made some assumptions.”

Dean blinked. “You’re kind of an asshole, aren’t you?”

Cas held his hand out to Dean. “Sorry? In my defense you have a pretty scary face on when you shop.”

Dean took the offered hand, allowing Cas to haul him up.“So what’s your story? Fair’s fair, since you seem to know so much of mine. You been living under a rock or what?”

Cas frowned, staring at his now dirt covered palm as Dean brushed himself off and leaned back in to grab the shovel. “Not exactly. It would be more accurate to say that I have been living on top of a rock. Essentially, I’ve been hiking across the Appalachian Mountains. After I made it through the range I found myself drifting further and further north. This town was the last on my trip and I find that wherever I go, there is work to be done.”

“Well. Mountain man or no, you had better brush up on your social skills,” Dean wrinkled his nose. “Not everyone is as nice as me and I would hate to see your pretty face wearing a black eye because you told Rufus we don’t take care of our own.”

Cas nodded, “I don’t think I would like that either,” they began walking back up to the road, the wind catching their hair as they came over the top of the hill. “I’m sure after meeting you again today that you are a very good neighbor. I hope you will continue to be so. Becky is an enthusiastic landlady, but as she knows little about construction. I find the rooms she rents out to be disturbingly drafty.”

He looked at Dean with wide, sad eyes.

Dean huffed a breath and Cas smiled at his almost laugh.

“You insult me and ask me to rebuild your lodges in the same breath? You really have been living deep in the mountains or something.” He raised the shovel, setting it over his shoulder before walking back to the house.

“Dean!”

Dean stopped, turning slightly to look back.

“I’ll see you again soon.” Cas said, confidently.

Shaking his head, Dean waved goodbye and resumed the long trek back to his truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are about to get good


	3. In the Hall of the Mountain King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter about killed me it was such a mess *hands beta an arm full of roses and apologies*

He was standing on the porch when it began. The first sign was a harmless flickering of light from the mountain top. Just a few brief flashes of white, impossibly bright for an act of nature. Dean shifted, leaning one arm along the main porch beam as he leaned in to get a better look. A shadow was beginning to reach out, creeping down the mountain side. Slowly, curiously, fingers streaked out from the shadow, breaking off to cover the town as the first edges of dark reached the outermost homes.

One by one the lights of the town dimmed. Darkness filled the corners and crept in through the cracks. Some homes were warded, old magics put into the foundations to keep the dark out. Other homes were not so fortunate, but the shadows weren’t for humans tonight and they passed by with little more than a shiver for the sleeping residents.

As the Call touched the town the dead rose. Murderers and murdered ascended. The flickering of their spirits looked like fire on the water.

Soon the town was emptied, the sky writhing with specters. The otherworldly host was soaring towards the mountain as the hands of shadows reached towards the sea, down into the deeps, where the light of day never touched.

Finally, the shadow fell over the cottage, its siren song a demanding pull that had little effect on Dean. For a moment, he entertained the thought of ignoring the Call. He had for the past half century, but for once he felt like a ride. Maybe it was time to give the local spooks a reminder of what watched the town.

Dean opened his eyes…and let go.

He couldn’t say that he transformed into another shape. No metamorphosis could take place for something that was just him, existing. Dean the Man and Dean the Other were simply a state of being, no one way more real than the next. It was simply that the part of Dean that answered the call was not the Dean that lived quietly alone in his house on the cliff, with only rocks and waves for company.

This Other Dean rose up, riding the sound of the call as he stretched himself in impossible ways. He wasn’t sure even now what he looked like to the people of the town. Most of them were locked away in bed, but well-loved quilts and floral papered walls were thin barriers between them and the things that rose in the night. The best protection was that of their own limited senses and closed minds.

Only once, years and years ago, had Dean met anyone who could look on what stalked the hills at night without fear. Mrs. Mossely said then that Dean looked tired, that his claws were dull and round from scraping and clawing against the mountain and fighting things he couldn’t change. She had met him in the early years, some time after he had finally brushed the ash and stench of hell from his body. His town had changed in the years he had been gone, but Dean was pretty sure that even if he had been in a position to be comfortable around anyone, he would have been rubbed wrong by that woman. He couldn’t say for sure, and she never let anything slip, but her magic had the same flavor as that of the witch who had told Sam how to save his fiance. The same witch Dean had hunted down a year later, who had laughed when Dean had begged for a way to free his brother. She hadn’t been laughing when he held a torch to her home.

Mossley hadn’t left the same putrid taste of rotten egg in his mouth and she hadn’t laughed in shrill scorn at the sight of him. But she had the same look in her eye. That way of talking to him that said clearly ‘I know better than you do about what you need’. No, he hadn’t gotten along with her well at all. But they had survived each other. She kept her ‘requests’ for assistance to a minimum, and he helped out when human hands just wouldn’t do. They had their truce, and sometimes they even managed to sit down for a drink long enough that he could almost believe he liked her.

Mossely had also said Impala was as beautiful as ever, even years after her once warm and lively flanks had rotted off her bones and even the foals of her own last foal had died. Even in death, her spirit was fierce and wild. A fitting mount for her master, crafted from fire and ash and sea.

Dean shook himself, moving upwards as he unfurled. He felt Impala come to him, heard her playful greeting as she rose from beneath to surge forward, her joy clashing with the solemn reluctance of the others he was joining.

There were many spirits in this ocean, the coast littered with a long history of murders and shipwrecks. The ghosts of sailors cowered as they flew, shying away from Dean as they sensed him. He was a creature altogether different from them, his powers beyond theirs even in death.

He rode grimly towards the mountain, paying little attention to the parade of the dead around him. His business was with the master of the Call and his court.

Lights danced ominously on the mountain as the parade of demons and dead ascended. Dean spared no thought for the sleeping town below. He knew no human would venture out tonight.

Yet something stirred down in the quiet homes.

A light sound of trumpets sounded out, joining with the Call, mingling and transforming into the soft chime of bells.

Impala jerked in surprise. The sound grew as Dean steadied his mount in her flight, some force seeming to pull him toward the homes.The music swelled as the light lifted up out of the town to join the parade. Dean found himself watching the newcomer with interest. Even the older, stronger haunts shied away from the creature, as if its light hurt them.

The light didn’t burn Dean. In fact, it felt almost soothing. It was an almost nostalgic feeling and he found himself trying to remember where he had seen or felt that light before.

As the parade neared the mountain it was joined by more and more of the darker beings, the other that couldn’t pass under the light of day. The older creatures of Cain’s court tended to dwell in his mountain’s shadow. In fact, Dean himself was the only creature of knightly caliber that lived under his own rule, and they feared him for it.

He had spent enough time at the mercy of demons that he was deeply instilled with a healthy disdain of their hierarchy. He might have many of their powers, but he would never bow to any master of theirs. Luckily for every creature that lived in the shadow of the mountain, the Mountain King was something beyond demonic. Rumor had it that he was one of the first demons, so old that he grew the power to break away from the others. Another theory claimed he was a god, the anthropomorphised embodiment of the mountain itself. Whatever he was, no creature or spirit around was old enough to remember. To Dean, he was the friend and enemy he never wanted. It was in part why he was here tonight. It had been years since he had met with the Mountain King.

In the flame of unnatural fire, Cain loomed on his throne. Around the throne lurked scaled and fanged beings, creatures with leather wings, with claws of blackened stone. Some were demons, escaped from hell in centuries past and living in the dark corners of the human world. Some were spirits, human and sad, little more than bitter regret and memory. The Mountain King himself appeared human, kingly in appearance as well as name, with his intimidating brow and mane of silvered hair. He sat with a confident tilt to his shoulders, as if in judgement of all who came before him.

Dean landed, body physically human once more as his feet touched the earth.

The crowd fell silent as Dean strode confidently forward, ignoring them. They parted with skittish haste as he approached the throne.

Cain rose, seemingly not in the least surprised that the valley’s most elusive resident had answered the Call and joined the revelries.

“It has been such a long time, my friend,” Cain said, inclining his head towards Dean, as Dean gave him a mocking bow. “I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

Dean shrugged. “Can’t say that I missed you. I can see that your taste in friends hasn’t gotten any better while I was gone.” He eyed the creatures around them, who sneered back.

“Charming,” Cain shook his head, tutting Dean’s bad manners as he gestured Dean closer. “I am glad you answered the Call tonight. I have much I wish to discuss with you, but I believe it will have to wait,” his knowing look almost made Dean crack a smile. He and Cain had been playing this game for centuries.

“Wait for what? I think the party’s already started, old man.”

“Of course. But that doesn’t mean the most interesting part has already commenced. You haven’t missed anything,” Cain said, returning to his seat. He reclined on his throne to observe the hall. That odd feeling of nostalgia swept over Dean again as Cain looked upward. “Ah. It seems our new guest has arrived.”

They watched as the creature landed, alighting delicately a small distance from the crowd.

“Now what could an angel possibly be doing here on our mountain?” Cain said, expecting no answer from Dean, who turned to him with surprise. Even after all these lifetimes, Cain could break through Dean’s carefully cultivated habit of emotional suppression.

“Angel?” he demanded, ignoring the knowing smirk Cain was giving him from under his antiquated 1800’s beard. Dean had told him to cut it years ago but Cain insisted it gave him an air of gravitas. “You’re telling me that thing is an angel? Are angels even a thing?”

Cain laughed lightly, gesturing for Dean to join him on the seat next to the throne. Usually Dean would refuse on principle. He was nobody’s right hand man, even if he did have a history with Cain. But his curiosity was burning and it felt good to see the nervous looks the things around him sent their way as he sat beside their master.

“Angels are an unusual breed,” Cain murmured to him as they both watched the figure of light fold in its wings, pulling them back and out of even supernatural sight.. “You are already acquainted with many demons on this earth. Angels are not the polar opposite of demons as you are probably assuming. They are vicious warriors, monsters of light with a strong affinity with the human soul. They are guardians of souls, although they have little personal attachment or care for them,” Cain leaned back, eyes sharp as the angel approached. “I shall be very interested to hear what this one has to say.”

Dean barely held back a growl. His Other self was close to the surface tonight, and the thought of angels, while surrounded by all this reeking, burning excitement, made him furious in ways that he hadn’t felt in lifetimes.

“Why would an angel,” Dean grimaced, the word bitter in his mouth, “lower itself to join the Call? Surely it wouldn’t enjoy slumming it with demons and haunts.”

Cain shot him a sharp look. “Quite right,” his gaze flicked back to the throng of beasts. “I believe the answer to that question will be here shortly,” he nodded, and as if hearing their master the crowd parted to reveal yards of magnificent, winged blackness framing a surprisingly familiar face.

Dean let out a low curse, earning him a curious look from Cain. Dean couldn’t help himself though as he watched Castiel approach the throne. Seemingly the feeling was mutual as Castiel stumbled slightly, pausing for a fraction of a second, recognition flashing in his eyes.

Dean leaned back, a long sinuous stretch to disguise his unease, lounging as the angel met his gaze with regained composure.

“Greetings, Mountain King,” Castiel said, voice echoing through the hall. Even the lesser demons took note, ceasing the familiar tussling amongst themselves to watch, waiting quietly for their master’s reply.

“Greetings, Angel,” Cain answered, mockery in his tone.

Castiel just bowed slightly, unconcerned.

‘What could be the occasion for such a notable visit?”

“I thought it polite to introduce myself. I find I will be staying in the area for a time,” his gaze moved slowly to Dean before focusing back on the intimidating figure of the Mountain King. “Transience has become somewhat...bothersome.”

Cain considered this, gaze unreadable as he tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his seat.

“You are being purposefully obtuse about your mission here, angel,” Cain said, his tone bored. “You fool no one with your story of casual intent, yet you are lucky. I don’t care why you are here. You are free to stay, as you wish,” there was a surprised murmur from the crowd, and Cain glanced at Dean for a moment, gaze considering. With a frown that was almost hidden under his already imposing countenance he focused again on the angel. “I can guess your purpose in settling here and I find that it suits me.”

Castiel blinked, then bowed. Try as he might, Dean caught no hint of mockery in the gesture, and the angel calmly retired back into the wary crowd.

Cain turned again to Dean, seemingly no longer concerned about the angel.

“You are unsettled my friend.”

Dean couldn’t stop himself from rising to the bait. Cain knew well that Dean could have a short temper and he enjoyed playing with it.

“I’m not unsettled. Why the hell would I be?” Dean leaned back, kicking his legs out in an aggressive slouch. “You seem to know all about what’s going on, and seeing how I didn’t even know angels existed until tonight, I don’t see how worrying about this feathered ass would do me any good.”

“You are upset,” Cain said, overly sympathetic, knowing full well that Dean wanted to punch him in the face when he did that. “There’s no reason for it. Angels as I said, are not what humans believe them to be. They would have no reason to cross paths with you, as our kind is not at war with theirs, and you are not a simple human soul that would have passed on with their help. I do have an idea of what he might be doing here, but as that situation is not in my control,” he shrugged, “there is no harm in allowing him to stay.”

Cain rose, “Come. The night is young and you have joined us at long last. I was beginning to worry you had wasted away to a specter of yourself out there on that rock you live on.”

Dean snorted. “Maybe I just don’t like parties, you heathen.”

“You must have been very bored then, to join us on the largest night of revelry.”

“Bored. Right,” Dean stared blankly into the fiery throng of spirits. “I guess so. Although with the way the shadows have been creeping down the mountain lately, I wonder if it’s even possible to be lonely.”

He had felt it over the last few weeks. The land was awake in ways it hadn’t been for years.

“I wonder what the fuck you’re doing up here sometimes, the way things seem to have such an easy time slipping out.”

Cain regarded him, gaze level and amusement written on his face. Dean didn’t flinch. He knew damn well that Cain’s amusement could be sharp, lethal even. Cain let him get away with shit though, who knew why. He used to think it was because Cain wanted a knight, some monster powerful enough to keep the creatures of the veil under his control, but that never quite fit with their relationship. Cain was powerful and while he occasionally expressed a strong interest in having Dean join him, the issue was also never forced. He wanted Dean to choose, regardless of his personal investment in the matter.

“What do I care for haunts and shadows?” Cain asked, eyes laughing at Dean.

Dean sighed, relaxing back in his seat to watch the revelry before them. “You are such an ass.”

“So you say. Often,” Cain was all ease now, falling back into the familiar push and pull of the argument. “I’ve told you time and time again. I watch, not control. If you wish to find some sort of guardian for your precious town, I would suggest you try the job yourself. If you want a job done right, so they say,” he patted Dean’s shoulder as Dean scowled. “There is always room here for you. And if you choose to live under my rule, you might find yourself a bit more informed on our newest arrival.”

“Just because I didn’t know angels were real, doesn’t mean I don’t know about angels,” Dean growled. Why the hell had he decided to come again? He couldn’t remember anymore and he could feel a headache beginning to throb behind his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t just get your shit together and keep your nasties to yourself. Why do I have to all the leg work around here?”

Cain simply smiled again, enigmatic behind his beard. Around them the creatures of the night laughed and danced, alive again in the roaring supernatural firelight. 


	4. Why was I born, if it wasn't forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Some real Dean/Cas interaction. *sweats nervously*

Dawn came, bright and crisp, burning away the night mercilessly as Dean hiked along the pebbled forest path at the base of the mountain. At the top of the path above him loomed the bare, stone walls of a churchyard. The dilapidated rock supported an iron gate, open to visitors and bound to the ground with overgrown weeds. Dean barely spared it a glance as he walked through, intent on the building ahead.

The air around the church hung heavily, only disturbed by the slow, restless shifting of the spirits. Not a living creature was in sight as Dean stepped up to the building, boots crunching softly on layers of dead leaves and debris along the path. As he reached the large, elegantly carved doors he felt the otherworld stir uneasily. Ghosts whispered in Dean's ears.

Some voices he recognized, old neighbors and acquaintances from generations past. Mostly the spirits were ancient, faded beyond recognition into the most simple of concepts. Fear of the unknown, remorse for a life poorly lived. Loneliness. Anger. He flexed his hand against the wood. The door was smooth, weathered by the elements and age, but polished often and well cared for. Dean didn’t know who had charge of the church these days. So many little things slipped his notice as time inevitably wore on. Whoever it was must do regular maintenance, because the building was in excellent repair. No dust coated the abandoned pews, the hymn books old and yellowed but without loose pages and dog eared edges.

Dean hadn’t come to the chapel with any particular intention. He had wandered along, compelled by an abundance of energy built up over the long night of revelry. The night had ended pretty much the way he had predicted. Cain had wheedled, trying to convince Dean to join his court. Dean had deflected, sometimes gracefully, other times crudely.

Stepping along the center row he absently listened, letting the echos of leftover emotions flow over him.

He could have burned the spirits out. Most exorcisms brought down the power of light in some form or another. Sometimes it was a spiritual light of religious belief, others used the light of scientific knowledge. Such light eradicated the haunting spirits by overwhelming them, searing them from existence with blunt force. But it was the work of only a few minutes for Dean to separate the spirits from their earthly anchors. With a careful snip of his power he could loosen the haunt from the object or desire that bound them to this realm, in much the same way a gardener would ease a bud from the earth for repotting.

The door to the afterlife was always open for any spirit free enough to be ushered through the veil.  Dean gathered his energy around himself, pulling the ghosts in as he stepped out of the chapel through the back door. Sometimes all it took was a little push, a symbolic gateway out of this world and into the next, and Dean worked with this, moving from the solemn quiet of the stone building out into the fresh air of the morning.

It was with a small sigh of relief that he felt the spirits dissipate, voices fading in farewell as he continued to walk into the yard behind the church. Manipulating human souls, whether for nefarious means or simply to banish them, was no easy task. Most demons couldn’t do it. It took centuries of careful cultivation of spiritual energies to make a demon strong enough for the delicate action.

Around him crosses built of marble and wood rose from the ground in a brutal reminder about the power of death and its hold on the human world. He walked, stepping carefully around the graves as he made his way to one particular spot at the far edge of the yard, underneath the twisted branches of a barren tree.

Dean stared at the small stone sitting crookedly on the dirt and wondered, not for the first time, why anyone would think a tombstone could represent the life and existence of a human. Thousands of days, billions of breaths, the love and hopes and dreams of one person, and all you get at the end was a slab of granite and one or two lines of text.

A breeze blew in, shaking what few leaves remained on the tree in front of him as it brought the hint of the supernatural to Dean’s attention.

He sighed, breath barely a wisp of white condensation on the air.

“Do you really think you’re hiding from me?” he called, not bothering to look behind him for the creature in man’s skin that he knew would be lurking in the shade. “I can practically smell you, angel.”

That wasn’t quite right. True, the first time they had met Dean had been fooled. He had missed the electricity in the air, the quiet stillness that followed the angel for the calm before the storm. Maybe it was, but a storm of a different kind.

“What are you even doing here? You’re in the wrong neighborhood if you’re looking to proselytize.”

“I was under the impression that finding converts is easier among sinners than believers,” Castiel said, voice echoing from behind Dean back by the tree line. Dean didn’t bother to look. The beacon of the angel’s grace was more present in Dean’s mind than the worn and crumbling tombstone that marked this eternal resting place. His own essence wanted to reach out and roll in that light, to consume it even as the darker part of him feared being burned out by that light. It was annoying really.

“You subdued the spirits,” Cas said. “Not a skill many bother to cultivate.”

“So what?” Dean eyed the weeds that had grown wild along the stones. Whatever housekeeping maintained the church did not seem to extend to this little patch of dirt.

“It was well done,” Cas said, stepping up beside him. “I did not expect that of you. Their spirits rest easy now beyond this realm.”

“Cain told me you angels escort spirits to heaven or whatever,” Dean eyed the angel from the corners of his vision. He looked different than he had just hours ago before Cain’s throne. Back was the long coat, its baggy folds hiding what appeared to be a nice church suit underneath.“You show up now thinking to clear us out?”

Cas tilted his head. Dean imagined that were he to raise both palms up in supplication he would fit right in with the stone guardians that decorated the graveyard. “I don’t want anything from you,” he looked around, eyes pausing on the stones surrounding them. “I thought,” he paused, reading the script on the stone in front of Dean. “I felt you come here. Churches are often a sanctuary for those searching for a listening ear,” He shrugged, the movement stiff and unpracticed. “I thought you might appreciate the company.”

“What makes you think I’m looking for confession? Maybe I’m looking for some solitude.”

“I think you have plenty of that already,” Cas said, still staring at the tombstone.

_Here lies Dean Winchester. Beloved brother and friend._

“What are you looking for, Dean? Your body rests here in sanctified ground, yet somehow I doubt that gives your soul much comfort.”

Dean felt his lips curl back, his teeth baring in a silent snarl. But he refused to turn and face the angel. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “What the fuck are you implying?”

There was movement by his shoulder, as if Castiel had reached out to touch him but thought better of  the action. “Dean. Why are you here, lurking in the shadows while you send spirits to salvation?”

Dean turned now, nothing but fury on his face. “Are you offering me heaven? Because that would be a little too late. As you can see, my baptized little meat suit is sitting tight a solid six feet under. Maybe you should have brought your listening skills to the game a few hundred years sooner.”

“Maybe you should have held your soul in higher regard rather than bartering it away like some cheap piece of jewelry.” Castiel countered, disappointment written in his stone cold eyes.

Dean sucked in a breath.

“You took my father’s precious gift to you and you threw it to the demons without a second thought. It’s no surprise that you are wandering, lost and wretched as you are now.”

Dean was ridged, standing still as the graves around them. “It sounds to me like you don’t have a clue.  You pretend to be this nice, helpful guy but really you’re just an angel who mucks around with the mud monkeys. Cain is right. You don’t give two shits about us.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “The Mountain King has many opinions, few of which I would spare any thought for. If you ever wish to be free of this place I suggest you disregard anything that hell knight has to say.”

The wind was picking up again, blowing leaves over their feet as they stood, staring each other down.

“I think,” Dean said, voice clipped as he tried to find his calm. “You need to stay the hell away from me.”

“Dean,” Castiel started, but Dean pushed past him, leaving the angel and church behind him with the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a quote from the playwright Eugene Ionesco. I think, if I ever had a tombstone, this would be what I want on it.


	5. But You have cast off and rejected, You have been full of wrath against Your anointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back, after months of the deepest depression and unable to write. I apologize, as this chapter has been finished for some time. I hope to get back to updating at least once a week, but I have a few other fics to get back on schedule as well. Have patience and good things will come.

Rage.

Rage boiled through him, running along his veins like poison. He let go of his human form, bursting out in a mass of limbs and claws and teeth. He felt huge, serpentine as he twisted and coiled around himself. With a shuddering howl he threw himself into the black of the sky, the nonphysical membranes of his wings stretching to catch the currents of the spirit world. He aimed for the castle and its surrounding waters, just a few hills beyond the church.

How dare that angel judge him when everything that was monstrous about him could have been prevented. As if he hadn’t done his damned hardest, hadn’t fought tooth and claw against it, against all this. With a snarl he dove, slamming into the lake with such force that a tremor shook the mortal world. Spirits lurking in the depths were caught unaware, vanishing under the fire of his fury like the hapless souls they pulled down under the waters.

When Sam had come to him, shaking and weeping, Dean had thought him delusional. Sam was ranting about monsters, deals with the devil, and the fires of hell. Dean had feared for his brother’s sanity, had begged him to reveal what drugs or potions he had consumed, fearing that Sam would die in his arms without the antidote. Instead of answers he got tales of hellhounds and invisible monsters carving claw marks into his doors at night.

_ “Dean.” _

The call echoed through his mind, heavy in a way that demanded attention. Calm as the rock and earth that the town was built on.

_ “Dean.” _ It demanded again. Dean ceased his broiling and curled inward, waiting.

_ “You are unhappy, my friend. Fly with me.” _

Dean considered for a moment, claws clicking and scratching along the stone bed of the lake and his own scales. Then he shot up out of the lake, steam from his passing rising up to settle as fog on the world. Agitated, he flew erratic circles over the lake, eyes trained upward to where Cain glided above him.

_ “Dean.” _ the request was gentle and inviting. It cut through the rage and worry. Dean ceased his circling and rose up to meet the Mountain King, slowing to fly side by side with the stronger power.

_ “Fly.” _ he said again, and they took off, cutting through the air like wolves on the hunt.

He glided, half on the rivers of wind that tickled along his underbelly and caught on his wings, half on the flickering flames of energies that jumped off the mountain, swirling down to the valley. These supernatural winds lived in a constant rippling pool below, flowing down from the cliffs only to be returned to the land by the winds of the sea, purified by salt and wave.

Following Cain as he beckoned, Dean danced upwards through the clouds, slowly forgetting his rage in the joy of flight. They chased each other over the pines up to the cold, damp cliffs where human constraints and expectations gave way to older things, ancient thoughts and energies. 

Dean watched as Cain settled down on the rocks, natural as if he were the bones of the peeks.

Dean landed. While he wasn’t as at home on the mountain as Cain, it was calming to sit on its stone and to look out onto the valley, to watch the homes flicker with the lives of their inhabitants, to see the unchanging rise and fall of the tides.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon after the Call,” Cain remarked, his voice solid in Dean’s mind. “What has you so stirred up, my friend?”

Dean growled, shifting on the rocks. “Me and the angel had words,” he grunted out, starting to sethe again at the thought. “You were wrong to let him stay here. He doesn’t belong, and if I have to listen to him preaching at us again I’m going to fucking roast him.”

“I let him stay for good reasons. He cannot cause trouble unless you let him get to you,” Cain paused. “I must admit, I did think he would try. However, I didn’t expect you to care so soon. What did he say to you that kindled your famous temper?”

“I don’t know what he wants,’ Dean admitted. “He talks as if he knows me, like he has a right to my past,” he sighed, curling up on himself. “I haven’t thought about those first years in so long. What gives him the right to drag all that shit back up?” Cain said nothing, his thoughtful silence giving Dean time to regroup his thoughts. “You know what it’s like, to live in hell after selling your soul. You showed me how to live again after the pain.”

After the fires of torment were behind him, after he had clawed his way out of the inferno, wounded and angry, having given his everything for a brother who had made a stupid, rash mistake, he had found out just how hard living again would be. There were times in those first days free of hell where he had cursed Sam’s name and had wished he had left his brother to rot. He had roamed the hell mouth, just another shadow in a mountain of shadows. That was when Cain had found him. It was Cain who had dazzled him, had coaxed and commanded him until he had regained himself. No God had saved him. No messenger with heavenly purpose had rescued his innocent soul from a hundred years of torment. His brother had buried him and moved on, taking his new wife and leaving the mountain and the memory of his deal behind him.

Cain hummed, his true voice sending a buzz through the ground and up Dean’s spine. 

“As I said, he can only cause as much trouble as you let him. Despite what humans believe, angels don’t know any more about a soul than they are told. You and I know the pain of our creation, but such things this angel can only guess at.”

“If that’s true then why is he messing with me? Why is he guessing?”

“The angel likely has a mission,” Cain said, His  trueform flickering in and out high above the clouds. His eyes were multitude in this shape, but not unkind. “That he searched you out at the church could indicate that you have something to do with his orders. Or not. He might simply be curious. When you aren’t going out of your way to be an ass you can be quite charming.”

Dean snorted, the action manifesting as a slight tremor in the earth. Startled, he considered himself. He was fully manifested in the spirit realm. Much like Cain, the form he wore now bore little resemblance to his human body. In this form he was wings and scales, snake like with a pack of wolves at his head and a sun at his core. It wasn’t safe. Quickly he recollected himself, folding in self-consciously.

Dean sighed. “I guess it’s time to be a big boy.”

Cain chuckled. “I’m sure the village will appreciate it if you would stop throwing tantrums over your new friend. Learn to play nice with others.”

Dean snorted. “Laugh it up, old man. Maybe Cas’ll pay you a little visit next, make his rude little comments about your hobo beard and how you damned yourself.”

“Perhaps. Yet I very much doubt he has any desire to visit me,” Cain paused, looking up at the mountain. “I hope you remember my warning, Dean. Angels always have a mission.”

Dean nodded, stepping back as Cain pulled into himself, returning to the mountain in his true form.

Sighing, Dean looked down at his feet. He had returned to his familiar, human body as his rage had cooled.

Having no desire to experience his creature-like flight again so soon after losing control. Dean began the hike back to the village.

About an hour into the walk Dean was cursing the uneven ground and thanking his lucky stars that hunger couldn’t technically kill him anymore.

A loud crunching and rumbling announced an end to his suffering. Relieved, Dean turned to stick out his thumb for the blue and white stripes of the sheriff’s car.

“Hey there, stranger,” Sheriff Mills said, her window already down. “What are you doing out here, Dean? Burying a body? Did your junker finally give out on you? Don’t tell me you finally gave up on living off your inheritance because I do  _ not _ want to be your first attempt at solicitation.”

Dean snorted. “I would flip you off but I need a ride into town that doesn’t end in a comfy night in the county jail,” he rested his arms on the roof of the car, leaning in through the window. “Got room for a tired soul?”

“Get in, Winchester,” she laughed. “I’m running a taxi service tonight.”

Dean leaned in a little more to check the back seat and was greeted by a sheepish wave from Cas. Dean sighed, pressing his forehead against the roof of the car. “Just my luck,” he muttered, resigned.  “It’s a party.”

Jody popped the lock and Dean slid on in next to the angel, who shifted uncomfortably to allow him room.

As Jody pulled back onto the road Dean eyed him.

“Uhm,” Castiel said, shifting again in his seat. “I guess dress shoes aren’t the best footwear if one is planning on walking for any prolonged amount of time.”

“Should’a kept your secular look, huh?” Dean said casually. “But I guess if you had, you wouldn’t be getting the chance to ride into town with one of Cape Hope’s finest, and the good sheriff here, of course.” He winked at Jody.

“You’re a very confusing man, Dean Winchester.” Castiel said solemnly as Jody flipped Dean off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Psalm 89:38

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this fic will be worth the year I took to get this far on it. As I said, it is mostly finished so it wont be a sad wip like other fics I am still nursing along. Comments feed my soul. 
> 
> Come say hello. I am a lonely person.  
> ambersagen.tumblr.com


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